


breathe to feel my heart against yours

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: first person POV, i typed it in a way where the narrator (???) takes no specific gender, so it's all up to your imagination :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 15:30:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4354379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>we were cooking together. moving around each other. we had stupid smiles on our faces and he kept bumping my hip with his. he'd let his hand drop to brush against my back when he walked by.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathe to feel my heart against yours

**Author's Note:**

> this is all tannah's fault. the summary is a description of a dream i had and she said, "that sounds like a good beginning to a fanfic." i started writing at 2am. this has taken me like three days to complete even though it's just a tiny little blurb. i'm terrified it turned out awful. 
> 
> i'm a very poetic person so....(this is me apologising for not shutting up about niall's eyes)
> 
> title from Wake Me Up by Ed Sheeran because duh, of course.

his hair looks like starlight in the morning sun.

freckles are splattered across his back like pebbles on the sidewalk, easy to trace and to touch, easy to make niall shiver and sigh into the pillowcase. 

he peeks an eye open, corner of his mouth quirking up at the corner. his eyes shine bright with a smile as his hand slips over my hips, inching his face closer. his lips land at my shoulder, featherlight and heavy enough to make my lungs collapse, make my heart shrink before bursting out again, the deep beat reserved for his ears; his hands; his lips; for him. 

"mornin', beautiful," he murmurs, nosing his way up to my neck, underneath my jaw. creases from the pillow are etched into his pink cheeks, his hair flat and fluffy, glowing golden like a halo. 

i hum, scooting forward to press a kiss to his forehead, his temple, the tip of his nose. he scrunches it up immediately, making a sound of disgust before i pinch at his side, rolling away from him. his shirt from yesterday lies on the floor next to me ('messy boy,' i scold, 'always making me clean up after you.' his lips silence me, the mess gets larger) and i slip it on as i sit up, running my fingers through my hair. it gets his attention. 

he lays back, arms stretching above his head as he watches me. he's got a lazy smile on his face, tired eyes and fingertips whispering my name. his eyebrow arches underneath his hair, hands laying on the sheets like a request. i turn my head away with a smile of my own, earning a chuckle, before i head out of the room. 

i pull the curtains to the kitchen window back to let the sunlight in. the wood of the cupboards absorb the warmth, and the kitchen feels like home. the doors creak as i open them; pans, plates, and silverware spread across the counters. the stove heats up as i place eggs next to it. 

i hear niall before i see him. his bare feet shuffling along the hard floor, his exaggerated yawn and the groan that follows. i can almost picture his eyes, blue like a mosaic; blue like the wild sea caught in a still frame; blue like twilight before a thunderstorm, wild and thrashing caught in a slow, smooth embrace. 

mornings are not cliche. he does not come up behind me to slip his arms around my waist, to rest his chin on my shoulder, to press warm lips to my cheek. he does not pull me away from the pan to press me against the counter, to kiss down my neck and sigh confessions into the dip of my collarbone. he does not catch me stealing from where i am perched on the counter, legs kicking out to meet his. 

he presses his fingers to my shoulder as he walks by, filling the kettle with water and pulling out our worn morning mugs. the design is chipping off the side from overuse; from rubbing against it every december morning; from nervous nails and jittery fingers; from the scrubbing and the washing and the admiring. he pulls fruits from the fridge, tea from the corner counter, bread from the box near the sink. 

we move effortlessly around each other. few words are spoken between us- the whistling of the kettle does his talking, the clang of silverware does mine. he makes a point of moving by, sticking out his hip to bump against mine. in the early hours, sleepy, content smiles are etched into our faces, fond glances across the island that the other will never catch. his hands are never both full, in case he lets one drop to brush against my back, at the base of my spine to make me shudder. 

the plates are ready soon enough, laid out on the table and waiting. his fingers circle my wrist- calloused and gentle, soft and firm- to pull me into him, to press a kiss to my forehead, my temple, the tip of my nose, the corner of my lips. "love ya, darlin'," he'll whisper, meant for me, for us only. not for the birds outside, not for the screeching kettle or steaming plates; not for the resting pillows, the enveloping sheets. "love havin' ya by my side in the mornin', love seein' ya in my shirt."

i tap his cheek before tilting up my chin, pressing a kiss to his lips (finally, finally, finally) and to his chin. "love being the one wearing it, love loving you."

**Author's Note:**

> sorry to disappoint anyone. feedback is greatly appcreciated. I'm "working on" 3 different things right now because my mind hasn't been flowing right lately, but I promise I'll deliver soon. thank you thank you thank you


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